


under this roof

by meanderingsoul



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, Lap Cuddles, Marriage, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Violence, Post-Mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21742546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanderingsoul/pseuds/meanderingsoul
Summary: The house stayed still after Melinda parked the bike.
Relationships: Andrew Garner/Melinda May
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	under this roof

The house stayed still after Melinda parked the bike.

The car was gone and it stayed quiet outside the garage. This bike purred more than roared, but with it shut off she could hear the hush.

She’d let the neighborhood blur by, browns and greens. Most of the drive had blurred by, still plenty warm enough to make the four-hour trip on the bike.

Most of the time the drive cleared her head. Her “commute” cleared her head, gave her the time to put things away where they needed to be.

Not today. Her legs ached when she stood but not from the drive. From running.

Andrew had known she should be home soon, but not when. They were used to that now. The calendar in the mudroom told her it was Thursday. He’d be teaching still, not home for a couple hours yet. The seniors in this seminar always had questions.

The sheet music at the piano had changed. He’d remembered to water all of the plants, damp dirt under her fingertips when she checked over the house. There was fruit waiting in the bowl in the kitchen.

She ate an orange leaning over the sink, juice sticky on her hands. Her teeth clicked together tugging away the pith.

The guards’ neck had clicked, had crunched when she’d broken it.

Melinda sucked at the tart juice and swallowed hard, focused on tasting it, pressed the peel near her face and breathed.

She needed a shower.

Her body didn’t really need a shower. She’d already showered today at the Triskelion, after she and Coulson had finished debrief. The road hadn’t been grimy or damp. But that wasn’t the point of this.

Melinda closed the bathroom door behind her, let the steam cover the mirror.

Her hands slowly worked conditioner through her hair while she blinked sightlessly at the familiar tile. She couldn’t have the jasmine smell she liked in the field.

Water droplets ran down the side of her face.

Phil had caught blood spray across his face, had to fire too close. She didn’t like seeing him like that, had to watch him try and shake clean like a dog because there wasn't any time. But they’d had a whole strike team to account for, he wouldn’t sit it out. She didn’t insult both their intelligence by asking more than once. 

Melinda took a slow breath, tugged her heavy hair over her shoulder.

The towels smelled like they always did, like all their laundry. She clipped all her nails smooth again, twisted her hair back to dry and touched up the glossy white on her toes, ignored the greenish bruises on two of them.

The rest of the house was muffled inside the closet.

She rifled through a draw for a set of underthings, simple grey cotton, satin straps. Comfortable. Mostly useless. Her breasts swayed with it when she moved. She had fancier sets for sex, mesh and brighter satin, but that wasn’t what this was about.

She tugged down a dress she’d had for probably too many years, navy starting to fade, fabric worn silky, sleeves above her elbows and skirt past her knees. Light and soft.

May had been climbing a wall in stolen body armor two days ago.

But her body was finally starting to feel less like that machine. Skin soft and clean, bare feet on the tile, hair damp and cool on her shoulders. Her hands weren't sticky anymore. Her left had been tacky with blood for hours. 

Andrew was in his office, shuffling papers at the desk.

“Melinda.”

“Hey.” She drank him in carefully, his face and warm eyes and how his hands moved.

“I saw your bike. And the orange peels.”

He didn’t say she’d shut the door. Andrew already knew the reasons she did it, all of them. His eyes on her were worried.

On better days the shower door was open when he got home. On really good ones she’d have left her cloths on the floor between garage and bedroom. She’d often shut the bathroom door if she needed to clean around a wound because she’d rather tell him what it was before he saw it. When it was bad Phil called ahead, usually brought her home.

But she wasn’t hurt. A few abrasions. A bruised shin.

Melinda was just tired.

He went to get up, but she held out a hand to stop him, tugged at the back of the chair and waited for him to shift his weight, spread his knees a little before she climbed into his lap.

It was easier to remember she fit there while she was doing it, that she could sit across his thighs without bothering him, that her shoulders tucked right under his and she’d still have to lean up to kiss him.

Sometimes remembering her size helped. It made it hard to feel like she hurt everything she touched, feeling like this. Melinda tugged her feet up off the floor and tucked them against Drew’s leg.

His arm was sturdy and warm along her back, hand gentle around her hip. She tucked her face against the crook of his shoulder and _breathed_ , let out a shuddery sigh.

Andrew hummed low in his chest. Content. She felt it under her cheek. He pulled her arm against him, elbow bumping rib, settled with her hand against his throat.

His heartrate didn’t so much as twitch. It never did.

It let her wind her arms up around his neck like they were just normal arms, just her arms again, like she hadn’t broke bones this week. It let her finally lean up to kiss her husband hello, feel his fingers in the damp silk of her hair.

That other person was a part of her, that machine her body was sometimes. It wasn’t a part of her she regretted. She’d worked hard for it. She’d be that person again next week.

But sometimes she had to put it away more carefully than others. Like a good rifle. Be extra thorough.

Melinda licked her mouth, hooked her chin over his shoulder, drowsy and heavy in Drew’s lap, let her fingers keep rubbing absently over his hair while she stared out the window. Thank fuck he hadn’t tried to mow the back yard again.

Tender lips brushed her throat, the shell of her ear. Drew’s hand on her back rubbed a slow circle. She was too tired to shiver.

“Need an early night?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Anything you feel like for dinner?"

If he’d bought fruit he’d bought salad greens. All Melinda wanted besides this here and now was comfort food and a drink and to fall asleep on her own damn couch.

“The good chicken.” Butter and sage.

Andrew snorted, shook his head against her shoulder. “The _good chicken_.”

“You know exactly what I mean,” she grumbled, watching the sunset start shifting gold behind the trees. It was good with crisp greens. She hadn't had anything fresh in a week.

“Course I do babe.”

But neither of them moved. Andrew knew how to rock the chair without risking it overbalancing. It wasn't the first time she'd needed this coming home. 

Eventually Melinda let herself be set on the kitchen counter instead, let Andrew snatch a cooking knife out of her hands, tore salad leaves with clean fingers while he told her about his week. The mission finally felt far away.

She dozed off with her head on his belly and his hand on her head while an episode of something wound down on the screen. Melinda barely woke up when he carried her to bed and didn't dream.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! Huge RL thing has been accomplished! Instead of working on any of my wips or doing any of the baking I'm meant to be doing, this idea had been stewing in the back of my brain so I wrote it. That late 90s through 2008 era of canon is just so wide open to work with and the different glimpses we've gotten throughout canon of how May keeps her life organized in her head are just fascinating.


End file.
